On the dresser sits a vase of white camellias and a simple frame holding the first black-and-white sonogram I showed him in Central Park. In the corner is a rocking chair, hand-rubbed wood and soft leather, angled to catch the morning light.
“You did all this today?” I ask, my breath catching.
“Physically, the designer did this today,” he says, setting me gently on my feet but not letting go. “In my head, however, this has been a reality for a while.”
He reaches back and turns the lock with a quiet click, the small sound settling over my shoulders like a shawl. Safe. Comforting.
Everything after happens in slow motion. We’re not racing the clock anymore. He unpins my hair, watching it fall with a look that makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I undo the top buttons of his sweater, tracing the edge of his bandage with gentle fingertips.
In the hush of that room, the world narrows to just the two of us. Vlad's eyes hold mine, dark with intent, as his fingers find the hem of my sweater. He lifts it slowly, reverently, his callused thumbs brushing the skin of my waist, sending a shiver through me. I reach for him, my hands trembling a little as I gingerly pull his sweater over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest inch by inch.
A scar curves along his collarbone, pale and jagged, in the form of a lightning strike. Below it are the tattoos I’ve memorized. Cyrillic script, words and symbols of loyalty and survival inked into his skin. They aren’t just marks anymore, they’re a map ofthe man I cherish, the man I love, secrets he let me read long ago.
He's beautiful in his ruggedness, this Russian man who's fought wars I can only imagine, now standing before me with a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.
"No rush,kotenok," he murmurs in his sexy accented voice. "We have all night. Every night."
I trace the lines of his ink with my fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath. His hands slide up my back, unhooking my bra with a practiced ease that makes me smile against his shoulder.
We undress each other in a quiet rhythm. Laughter comes when he tugs at my socks, nearly toppling me onto the bed, but he catches me, pulling me close.
Naked, we stand skin to skin, his heat searing into me, awakening every nerve. He's careful, always, his touch reverent around the gentle swell of my belly where our child grows. His large hands grip my hips, fingers digging in with possessive hunger, guiding me to the bed.
We collapse onto the soft duvet. His hand slides boldly between my thighs, fingers teasing my slick, throbbing core, stroking in a way that makes me gasp and arch against him. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting golden shadows that dance over his sculpted body, softening the chiseled edge of his jaw.
My eyes lock onto his manhood, thick and hard, the sight of its glistening tip sending a flood of molten desire through me, my body trembling with an insatiable craving to feel him deep inside.
He kisses me, slow and deep before his mouth trails down my neck, nipping gently at my pulse point, drawing a gasp from me.
"Vladimir," I whisper, threading my fingers through his dark hair, holding him there as heat builds low in my core.
He shifts lower, his breath hot against my skin as he explores with lips and tongue. One hand cups my breast, thumb circling the peak while the other traces the curve of my thigh.
He's patient, teasing, rough fingers finding the sensitive spots that make me tremble. When he finally settles between my legs, his eyes meet mine—dark pools of desire and love. He whispers something in Russian, words I don't understand but feel in my bones.
When his mouth descends, the world blurs into a haze of heat and sensation. He licks and sucks with deliberate slowness, his tongue tracing relentless, teasing circles over my pulsing core, building me up like a symphony swelling to its peak.His large hands cradle my hips, anchoring me as I writhe beneath him.
He doesn’t stop, his lips and tongue relentless, humming his deep, approving growl against my slick, sensitive flesh. The vibration sends searing tremors rippling through me, curling my toes and arching my back as I grip the sheets.
The first climax crashes through like a tidal wave, my body shuddering, his name spilling from my lips in a breathless cry that echoes in the quiet room.
"Beautiful," he growls, his accent thicker now, laced with need.
He positions himself above me, careful not to press too hard, and enters me slowly, inch by inch, filling me. We move together in perfect synchrony.
He thrusts deep and steady, each roll of his hips hitting just right. His hand slips between us, fingers circling my clit with expert pressure, the second orgasm building fast and coiling tight until it snaps. I cry out, clenching around him, my nails digging into his back.
Vlad slows, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, whispering endearments in Russian. “Moya lyubov,” my love, he says as I come down.
He rolls us so I'm astride him, his hands guiding my hips. From this angle, he can go deeper. I ride him slowly at first, savoring the friction, the way his eyes devour me. He reaches up, pinching my nipples lightly, then harder, the mix of pain and pleasure pushing me higher.
"Faster, Teresa," he urges, and I oblige, grinding down as his thumb finds my center again.
The third climax is the sweetest, building in layers until it shatters me completely, waves of ecstasy pulsing through every nerve. He follows soon after, groaning my name, his release hot and claiming inside me.
We collapse together, tangled and spent, his arms wrapping around me protectively. The only sounds are our ragged breaths syncing into one and the wind against the glass as the snow falls soft and endless.
His hand rests on my belly, feeling the faint flutter within. Then he turns on his good side, elbow bent, head resting in his hand.
